End

Yesterday was my last day of radiation. For the first time, I talked to the other people in the waiting room, most of whom were there for breast cancer – a young woman, maybe 30; a woman in her 40s whose husband came with her every day, and an older woman, maybe in her early sixties, who was very enthusiastic about Scientology. “I just wish I’d found it earlier,” she said ruefully, “and then maybe I wouldn’t be here.”

So.

They all wished me luck, as did the technicians I’ve gotten to know ever so slightly over the last seven weeks. I met with one of the nurses, who gave me a parting gift – a fleece blanket, a diploma, a t-shirt that doesn’t say “I survived breast cancer and all I got was this lousy t-shirt,” even though it clearly should. There was a piece of hard candy with a pink ribbon on it, and a little pink bear I put on my dashboard.

Today I started Tamoxifen, which I will take for the next five years; it can cause hair thinning and hot flashes, but will probably not be a huge deal. Dr Levine gave me the option of also shutting down my ovaries, though he wasn’t enthusiastic. It appeals to me because it is extreme; I didn’t have my breasts cut off, so I feel I am due for something a little edgy. But all the same I probably won’t do it. (I’m getting a second opinion from my Indiana oncologist anyway.)

I know I ought to be really happy about finishing radiation, but instead all I seem to feel is blank. I am done, but I cannot yet return to my life. It’s not clear what there is to return to; my Indiana life is gone for good, my New York life hasn’t yet begun. I am ambivalent about it anyway. I apply for jobs; I play with the cats. Soon it will be Christmas.

The other day, Tuesday I guess, I started to cry during my treatment. It’s so quick, radiation, that I only got two or three tears out before the techs came back in and I had to lie and say my eyes were watering because of allergies, which they pretended to believe. What I was thinking was, I no longer have any reason to ever get out of bed in the mornings, apart from the eventual need to use the bathroom. I tell myself to cut out the self-pity, but the fact remains that there is nothing. Everything that was my life is gone, and I don’t know what is next.

This morning I took my first Tamoxifen – the first of 1,825. I’m not good at remembering to take pills, but by the time I’m done with these – when I’m 29, for Heaven’s sake – I imagine I’ll be a pro.

Birthday

The thing about a birthday is that one tends to view it in isolation, as though it stood for the whole year, or where one is in life in general, or something. As my days go, today was fine – I didn’t get any parking tickets, I ran, I worked on my comic book, I watched some Buffy, I had a nice dinner with my parents. As birthdays go, it wasn’t my worst.

Next year I’ll be twenty-five, and I’ll live in New York and people I know who aren’t my parents will buy me drinks. Twenty-four will probably be okay. And God knows it won’t last forever.

An interesting article on mastectomies and their effects on women’s sexuality. I don’t really see the point of having implants without nipples. I don’t mean that women who get mastectomies should opt to have their nipples spared, since cancer can develop there and that would defeat the whole purpose. But without nipples, you’d look like a Barbie. It would look more disturbing, I think, than just having scars. But I suppose that’s really a matter of taste.

The article isn’t really about that, of course – that’s just my fixation on mastectomies showing. Really what the article is about is, why don’t the whitecoats prepare women for the impact their treatment will have on their sexuality? In my case, it is probably because I almost never see doctors without my parents in the room. And, of course, I’m not married. Doctors have talked to me about the possibility of someday getting pregnant (I probably can) and breastfeeding (probably not with the right breast, but Edge says the left will compensate). But I’ll be on Tamoxifen for five years – until I’m 28 – and I have no idea yet how that will effect me.

Radiation: Not that interesting

Every day at 11:20 I go to Roswell, park in the special parking lot, scan the bar code on my Roswell ID card, and change into a “breast gown” in one of several flattering shades of teal. (A breast gown is a hospital gown that wraps around, so neither your back nor your front is exposed, and it doesn’t need to be tied.) I poke my head in at Machine 1 to tell them I’m there, and then sometimes they send me to read a 2006 issue of Seventeen or the issue of Self with Kelly Clarkson on the cover. (The Self is especially annoying because it has a long article on women who are worried that they may some day get breast cancer. My heart bleeds for them almost as much as for the woman who wrote in to the Buffalo News the other day with a story about having to get a biopsy one time, which turned out to be a false alarm. To celebrate, she bought a $400 purse.)

Where was I? Right, so before long they call me in, and I lie down on the hard metal table. They line my tattoos up with lasers to make sure I’m correctly positioned, then they leave the room. (This is a two-to-four person job, and it can feel a little bit like an alien abduction, although they are all very nice.) Usually there is classic rock playing, and there’s a large picture of a craggy shoreline on the ceiling. The machine does its thing, and a minute later the techs come back in and we’re done.

It’s pretty dull, and at this point I do it on autopilot. So far I haven’t had any real side effects, though my skin there is starting to get a little darker. It doesn’t hurt. It’s much less exciting than chemo.

Recently my hard drive melted, so I’m less wired than I’d prefer. (I’m typing this on my dad’s laptop.) You might think that after having cancer, things like computer trouble would just roll off my back. It’s just a thing, after all. That’s not how I react. Nowadays every new bad thing that happens, no matter how trivial, is liable to plunge me into the deepest despair. “First cancer, then loneliness and exile, and now this! Truly I cannot go on.” Of course, so much effort has been made to ensure my continued existence that I have to go on, no matter how tedious everything seems. I just have to make the best of it.

And speaking of making the best of things, behold my Halloween costume! Can you guess what I am?

Radiation

Started radiation yesterday – it’s exciting, I guess, insofar as it’s the last really time-consuming phase of treatment. (After this it’s just seven more months or so of Herceptin and five years of Tamoxifen, which I think is just a pill.) The radiation department is my favorite place in Roswell because it is so efficient – yesterday I was in and out in 19 minutes, which includes changing and waiting for my turn on the machine. Also they gave me my first ever tattoos: two tiny dots, one on my sternum, one on my side. (They use the tattoos to line me up in the machine.)

It doesn’t hurt, although over the long term it sometimes causes burns. It’s kind of a drag to have to go to Roswell five days a week, but that’s the price you pay to keep your breasts. They’d better make it worth my while.

And furthermore…

It’s been said before, but I find it particularly distressing that some of the products being marketed with the pink ribbon may actually be tied to breast cancer. I’m given to understand that the Yoplait yogurt no longer contains bovine growth hormone, but many Estee Lauder products still contain ingredients that are linked to cancer and birth defects. Estee Lauder lobbied against legislation in California that would require companies to disclose these ingredients to the public. Yeah, they’re clearly really concerned about ending breast cancer.

More on pink

Here’s an article on why some people are conflicted about all the pink. It’s not just that it forces us to think about cancer when we’re just trying to buy Triscuits, it also seems vaguely exploitative to use a serious disease as a marketing tool.

On a related note, the Olmsted Parks Conservancy is planning to install a “tribute grove” in Delaware Park. Family and friends can buy pink flowering plants for the grove to “remember and pay tribute to their loved one” (no mention is made of survivors, but maybe that’s just because buying a shrub in honor of oneself seems peculiar). I am a fan of the parks, but I find this idea distasteful. Perhaps I am simply being a poor sport – people buy trees, which helps the park, and 25% of the money raised goes to the Komen Foundation, which does many things. I’m sure it’s well-intentioned. But I’m not looking forward to running past the cancer grove – especially in spring.

Big Pink

Normally, I find the ubiquitous pink-for-breast-cancer swag annoying. I am making an exception for the NFL’s pink gloves and cleats – both because it is a less insipid shade of pink than most of this awareness crap, and because I find the thought of burly men donning pink for the cause rather adorable.

Marvel Divas, Issue 3: I can no longer pretend I’m too cool for this.

My mom and I were in New York for a couple of days last week – she had business to attend to, and I came along for the ride. It wasn’t a terribly eventful trip, but it was fun, and I got to drop by my favorite comic book store, Jim Hanley’s Universe, which is right near the Empire State Building.

In the mini-comic section, I found an effort by a high school pal, which strengthened my resolve to put out a mini of my own. If she can do it, there’s no reason I can’t. My purchase of her comic hopefully redeemed me somewhat in the eyes of the clerk, since I also bought the latest New Mutants and the third installment of Marvel Divas.

The New Mutants have switched artists – it’s now being drawn by Zachary Baldus, and it’s quite pretty. It looks as if he used colored pencils – it’s an attractively muted palatte, and Karma actually looks Vietnamese for a change, which is kind of neat. (Roberto daCosta seems to get whiter and whiter, however. He’s actually biracial – Brazilian, with a white, red-haired mother and a dark-skinned father, but in the original series he was much darker-skinned. I doubt that this is intentional, but it’s rather annoying, and it’s hardly the first time.)

I am distressed by the teaser for Issue 6 – it looks as though they’re bringing my poor beloved Cypher back from the dead – again. This will be, I think, the fourth resurrection – why can’t they let that poor boy rest in peace? And why have both the recent New Mutants storylines – first Legion, and now this – been retreads of New Mutants storylines from the 80’s? Are they assuming that the people reading this new series were fans of the original New Mutants and will enjoy the familiarity, or that they can get away with stuff that’s been done because it was done so long ago and no one remembers? All in all I have rather mixed feelings about this series, and I’m very apprehensive about the next issue. Doug Ramsey was the first great love of my life (because I’m schizophrenic). I wish Marvel would leave him alone.

My feelings about Marvel Divas are, on the other hand, comparatively straightforward: I pretty much love it. Sure, there’s the shame of buying it, and yeah, it’s kind of embarrassing to gush about it here, but it must be said – it’s the best pop culture portrayal of breast cancer I have ever seen. It blows Sex and the City out of the water (unsurprisingly) – it’s even better than DtWoF. Firestar is having chemo, and it’s … it’s totally realistic!

Dr Strange’s nurse explains to Firestar that chemo attacks the fast-growing cells in your body – cancer cells, of course, but also hair, blood, mouth, nail, and intestinal tract. Intestinal tract! There’s actually a panel where Captain Marvel is standing outside the bathroom door while Firestar is inside, either puking or pooping her guts out, it’s unclear, but either way not something you expect to see based on such a cheesecakey cover. There’s also a panel where all the Marvel Divas stay in watching Gerard Butler on Netflix, Firestar wrapped in a fuzzy robe, drinking ginger tea. That is what chemo is like!

The only thing that gave me pause was when Hellcat, in a narration box, says “I think we were all secretly hoping that the worst wouldn’t happen. That somehow, Angelica would be an exception.” She’s talking about hair loss. Really? Hair loss is “the worst”? Whatever. Like me, Firestar decides against a wig and just shaves her head. Hey Firestar, now that my hair’s growing back, I have a hat you can borrow!

As Hellcat points out, Firestar is tough – she fought the Juggernaut once. Nevertheless, chemo seems to have knocked her for a bit of a loop. I find this reassuring. I’m looking forward to the stunning conclusion, in which, I hope, we will learn that her lumpectomy was successful and everything is … well, super.

Fail.

This ad grosses me out (and not only because that guy is eating a hot dog in the swimming pool, although yeah, ew):

Sure, breast cancer can kill you and everything, but (mostly) only if you’re a chick. So who really cares, right? Except that, as this ad gently reminds us,  dudes like looking at sexy sexy bosoms! And breast cancer poses a serious threat to said bosoms! What if the lady in the commercial got breast cancer and had to get a mastectomy – what a loss to dudedom!

If I were a guy, I’d like to think I’d find this kind of thing rather insulting.